


A Night out in Lettenhove

by frubeto



Series: challenges [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: In a way, Jaskier | Dandelion and Valdo Marx are exes, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, M/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24274204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frubeto/pseuds/frubeto
Summary: Geralt accompanies Jaskier to a thing. Again. It goes only marginally better than the last time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: challenges [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535477
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

After arriving in Lettenhove covered in the dust and grime of the road, they entered the main hall for the festivities bathed and changed only some time later. It had already filled with musicians from near and far, sometimes accompanied by lords and ladies and patrons of the arts, indistinct chatter between the guests, the smell of food being prepared in the nearby kitchens, and, of course, the Count and Countess de Lettenhove greeting the new arrivals personally. Jaskier took a steadying breath. Well. He only needed to get past them this once, and then hopefully he could start enjoying himself in the anticipation of his performance.

“Julian,” his mother greeted, and by the _gods,_ this was going to be a _disaster._ Her tone reminded him exactly why he had gotten rid of that name; it sliced through his flesh and left him tingling all over in anything but the good way.

Geralt had asked why he was being so on edge about being back home after he had snapped at him for doubting his fashion choices for this evening, and he’d struggled to explain. After all, it wasn’t as if he had grown up unhappy. His parents had money. He’d basically grown up spoiled. He’d gotten all the food he ever wanted, all the clothes he ever wanted. He’d gotten the education he wanted. They hadn’t abandoned him in the woods to fight for himself when he hadn’t lived up to their expectations. How did he explain to a man without family that the thought of staying here for longer than absolutely necessary filled him with unparalleled dread? How did he explain that he was a different person than the one who had left, and every time he returned, so did the 18-year old, the count’s little boy, because that’s all he knew to be in these walls?

“Countess,” he answered, and behind him, Geralt inclined his head.

“Oh, no need for the formalities, my dear.”

Her smile was icy, willing him to behave. Next to her, his father stood with the silent authority of a man who knew his respect was guaranteed, and though that wasn’t uncommon, it was unnerving in its own right.

“And you must be the witcher,” his mother continued. “When my daughter told us he’s brought someone thrice his size I didn’t think she was being _literal._ ”

She laughed, fake and sharp, and Jaskier flinched, never happier about Geralt’s general taciturnity when all he heard was a noncommital “Hm” from behind him.

“Please. Bo here will show you to your seat.”

A short man stepped forward, a servant unfamiliar to Jaskier, maybe new, or hired specifically for this event, and they moved to follow him. But unfortunately, his mother had other plans, stopping him before he could pass them.

“Oh, you will sit us, of course.”

_Of course._ Because that surely was the best way to avoid any unnecessary drama tonight. Well, it would have been too easy. He turned to Geralt with a nod and a look that hopefully said “I’ll take care of this”, and watched as he stepped around him to leave with Bo.

“Will I,” he challenged then, voice shaking imperceptible to anyone but maybe Geralt, still in earshot.

There was a scoff, and he attributed it to his mother, even as his eyes followed Geralt across the room. But before she could scold him, his father decided to join the conversation with a tone of deceiving calm and underlying anger that had never failed to make Jaskier cower before him.

“Anything else would be improper.”

“Ah.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking between him and Geralt, reaching his designated seat, at the last table on the left, entirely empty before now, just next to the servant’s entrance.  _Fuck no._ Granted, Ger alt might actually enjoy that table, probably would have chosen it as the best corner to brood in, but it was far from  _polite_ to  _assign_ it to him. Despite the alarm bells ringing in his ears, Jaskier squared his shoulders.

“And yet you consider it proper to have my companion sit at the end of the hall, alone?”

“Yes.”

Oh. 

His eyes snapped to his father’s face in disbelief. He had a whole argument prepared by now, about the uselessness of a bodyguard who wasn’t within sword’s distance, and the kind of message it would send to the people, but his father left it at that. Right.

“Then I shall join him there.”

And gods, he wasn’t ashamed to say he was proud of the finality he had managed to put into it, and it gave him the confidence needed to stay and deliver a formal dismissal despite every inch of him screaming to get away as fast as possible, nervous energy only dissipating once he was striding down the tables to the back to join Geralt at theirs.

*

“Someone’s coming our way.”

Jaskier looked up. He was sitting with his back to the crowd – not what he would have liked, but Geralt had of course preferred to place himself able to oversee the room, and Jaskier had preferred to be able to look at him – and Geralt had never needed to be told twice to be on the lookout for anyone who might mean them hard. Right now he was glaring at some point over Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Not deterred by the scary face?” Jaskier joked, and then forewent the predictable ‘Hm’ by adding,

  
“Who?”

Geralt shook his head to mean he had no idea.

“Bard, maybe. Ridiculous outfit.”

But before Jaskier could object to that line of reasoning, he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

“Pankratz!”

He groaned.

“ _Marx._ ”

He should have known he’d be here. Should have been prepared when the hand descended on his shoulder and made him tense up.

“The one and only. Thought I’d seen you.”

“What do you want.”

“Can an old friend not wish his rival good luck before a competition?” he asked, patting his shoulder and then pulling his hand away as if burned.

“Oh, wow, where did you get that doublet from. Not many tailors willing to try that cut on old rags.”

_Rags!_ The  _audacity._

Jaw clenched, Jaskier shared a look with Geralt, who had been there when he’d bought the ensemble, and knew exactly how much he had paid for the fabric. He’d been berating him on his priorities ever since. And yes, while it might have been true that he’d spent less than half of what he usually would – a fact he’d deliberately kept to himself in front of Geralt – they had had a few rough weeks behind them, and not much time to prepare, and he’d  _liked_ it, for Melitele’s sake. And besides, sometimes, he thought, eyeing Valdo, who was stepping around him to plant himself sideways on the bench next to him in elaborate silks, sometimes things that were expensive, were  _worse._

“Please, yes, why don’t you sit with us, Valdo, since you’re always such a pleasure to be around.”

“Thanks,” Valdo said sweetly, completely ignoring the sarcasm and taking a pointed look around.

“I was worried you’d get special treatment here, you know, but it appears I needn’t have.”

“I’m here as a bard,” Jaskier explained, still caught up in the insult to his clothes. “And this colour brings out my eyes, you _prick._ ”

“Hm,” Valdo said, very obviously not disagreeing, “shame you can’t let anyone touch you, though”

Jaskier cocked his head.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Aaaand there went his credibility. He knew what was coming even before Valdo smirked, predatory, and leaned forward.

“Oh, but we both know that’s not true.”

_Bullocks._

A hand landed on his thigh, probably trying to drive home a point, but Jaskier couldn’t exactly find it in him to care now that he’d already surrendered that point, so he ignored it and reached for his wine.

“What will it be this time then, your performance? Monkeys dancing? Instruments burning? A mage providing your special effects to dazzle the public?”

“Don’t give me _ideas,_ ” Valdo crooned, putting down his cup. “No, tonight it’s just me, and my natural charm.”

Jaskier actually laughed out loud, glad he had already swallowed his mouthful.

“Good luck with that.”

Valdo shrugged.

“Worked on you.”

True, unfortunately. Still, Jaskier wouldn’t call it charm, per  se, that had driven him into his arms. The man’s face certainly had something to do with it as well.

“Ah, but here I thought we had established that I’m easy,” he shot back, and Valdo grinned.

“Touché.”

Jaskier smiled, and couldn’t keep it from spreading all across his face as he looked at him properly for the first time. They hadn’t actually seen each other in quite a while, and yet they always fell back into the same familiar pattern between them as if no time had passed at all.

Maybe their location was playing a part in this as well, but in moments like these Jaskier remembered why he had loved the time with him, and how easy it would be to just forgive him and have it back. He wanted to, really, but he had enough common sense left in him to tell him what a gloriously stupid idea that was. They had parted ways for a reason. He hadn’t changed. They were better off as enemies.

Lost in thought, Jaskier hadn’t noticed the hand move from his thigh, and only snapped back to reality when it made contact with his chest instead, Valdo getting up and pulling his leg over the bench.

“See you around, Julian,” he said, before pressing a kiss to his temple and leaving him sitting alone with Geralt again, who had been following the interaction with an annoyingly bemused expression.

Maybe it had been a bad decision to bring him here. Too many secrets to uncover, tragic backstory to unlock. He could never predict how things would hit him, he mused, as Valdo’s scent slowly dissipated under his nose.

“You still love him,” Geralt stated suddenly, completely skipping over the conversation a normal human would start – 

_Oh, so you two were – Yes, emphasis on were, Geralt, past tense – But you hate the man’s guts, what happened? –_

Alright, okay, so ma ybe Jaskier preferred it not going that way.

“No,” he said, not very convincingly, even if it was the truth. “No, it’s not that, it’s just– first love, and all that. It leaves a mark on you, you know.”

He wasn’t actually sure if Geralt knew. He only hummed, definitely following Valdo’s walk back to the Cidarian table.


	2. Chapter 2

The bard’s voice was clear as cold winter air, luring like a siren’s song, her hair falling into a new fascinating combination every time she moved, and when their eyes met, Vema forgot she was here to work, and she might just be the _tiniest_ bit in love.

Too bad she had been tasked with delivering a message to the far back of the room, where the Viscount was sitting in the company of a witcher, of all people. Well, he had always been a little… off, that one, as her mother would put it, she thought, as she obediently gave up her spot near the stage and made her way through the tables. Not that she minded, herself, they had been great friends, back when they were allowed to, but it had always provoked trouble in the family, and that was never a good thing when you were dealing with them most of the day.

“My Lord,” she greeted as she approached him, adding a curtsy for propriety’s sake.

He looked up from where he was puppy-eyeing the witcher into trying some of the Temerian fruit, without much success, and a flicker of recognition across his face told her he did at least remember her.

“Vema.”

She inclined her head. But stopped him straightaway from initiating any smalltalk.

“The Countess wishes to speak to you.”

As expected, that visibly brought his mood down. He turned to throw a contemplating look at the family table, and when he turned back around with a huff she knew he had decided on being difficult.

“Then she can very well tell me that herself.”

She gasped. She hadn’t thought he’d go  _that_ far. How was she supposed to explain that to the lady?

“I really don’t think-”

“It’s fine. You know my mother doesn’t kill the messenger.”

He gave her a supporting smile that couldn’t have been more sad, and went back to cut a piece of fruit.  _Gods,_ if people would only stop eating  it right un der her nose. She had first dibs on the leftovers, but by the way it was looking she doubted the calculations would allow for it.

“So,” Julian started, turning around to look at her with a clearly forced but surprisingly cheery tone. “How are you, Vema? Is you mother well? Oh, is your brother still with that dimwit in Cintra? And don’t give me that ‘he’s a goodhearted man and I will not sully his reputation’ bullshit, we both know that besides his looks he has very little going for him.”

She allowed a smirk at his antics, ready to tell him that they married, actually, and not every man of court was inherently bad, and really, he should stop being jealous of it, when a burly man form the next table over spotted her and saw his chance.

“Oi, can we get more ale over here?”

She smiled and nodded, excusing herself.

“Of course, sir.”

“And some of this shit. It’s good.”

He held up an empty peel and her smile became even more fake than before.  _Not again._ Maybe she had to go to greater length to secure herself some.

*

Valdo Marx was playing, and by now Geralt had been looking forward to seeing what all the fuss was about. Jaskier however hadn’t even turned around. His usual floppy demeanour had changed the very second he’d heard his voice start to sing, and now he was staring intently at his cup of wine. It was how he didn’t even notice the previous contestant making a beeline for their table until she was sliding in next to him.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” she chose as her opening, which was either incredibly stupid, Geralt thought, or she was pursuing some specific goal. 

Jaskier only frowned at her.

“Normally I wouldn’t object to the company of a fair maiden, but if you’re only here to insult me, I fear I must decline the offer.”

She laughed heartily.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. Of course I’m aware of the most famous rivalry in the business.”

Geralt looked up. He  _had_ noticed there were several eyes on them at all times, taking turns discreetly judging every muscle Jaskier might move, and finding themselves disappointed when his attention was only on the woman.

“It’s been a while since anyone called me a maiden, though,” she continued. “Don’t know if I should take offence.”

Of course that was the thing that made Jaskier relax, actually let out a chuckle, and turn towards her.

“Then what brings the esteemed musician to our humble table?”

She leant forward, her face inches from his, and whispered,

“… corporate espionage.”

This time they both giggled. 

Geralt grunted. When he’d agreed to this he’d been hoping for a more subdued Jaskier in the presence of his parents, with the added bonus of learning more about him and his upbringing, gathering blackmail material to escape future stupid ideas, maybe embarrasing him on his home turf, and enjoying some decent food and ale all the while. And the ale  _was_ good, but he honestly didn’t know what he’d been thinking, this was  _Jaskier,_ and of course there wouldn’t be anything that would keep him from fucking his way through the guest list,  _right in front of him._

“You don’t need my secrets. You were good.”

“Thank you,” she said honestly, as if coming from Jaskier’s mouth it held some sort of special value. Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever understand.

“But come on, as if I have any chance in this when there’s the legendary bards Jaskier and Valdo Marx both here.”

“He’s a troubadour,” Jaskier corrected immediately, and he put the same inflection on the word as he did to ‘selkimore guts’.

“So why are you so _good?_ ” she insisted, propping her head up on one arm on the table, almost leaning around him, and yet he didn’t seem to pick up on her tone.

“Well,” he said, gesticulating over to Geralt, “say hello to Geralt, my lovely muse.”

She did look at him for a moment, studying him, neither of them actually saying ‘hello’.

“Sometimes some inspiration is all it takes. I’m not sharing him, though.”

He pointed at her in warning, and she only hummed

“I’m not interested in the witcher.”

And wasn’t that much obvious. She was leaning even further around Jaskier now, and then the smile blooming on his face told him he had finally caught on. 

It didn’t take long after that before they were kissing. Geralt rolled his eyes.

She pulled back after a while, and when they were both staring at each other like besotted idiots, she dropped a hand from Jaskier’s face, and Geralt could about guess where it landed by the jolt going through the man. 

“I’m sure the Viscount de Lettenhove knows where the empty chambers are in this place?”

Geralt almost snorted.

But Jaskier, even though surprised, seemed about to agree, distracted by her fingers carding through his hair, before he suddenly froze. And finally, realisation visibly rushed through him. He gasped, leaning away from her in almost comical offence.

“You!” he accused, “Are trying to distract me before my performance!”

The bard wasn’t even denying it.

  
“Is it working?”

More scandalized fingerpointing followed, and Geralt assumed that it clearly was.

“This isn’t espionage, it’s sabotage! Geralt!”

He shrugged, not sure why he was even being pulled into this, and fought hard to keep a smirk from his face.

“I’m here to protect your life,” he said, _not your dignity._

And she  _was_ good, he had to admit. Clever. Had his weaknesses down right from the start. He kind of liked her. And even Jaskier, though he protested, wasn’t actually angry.

The bard grinned, her work done, and collected her dress to stand.

“See you later, then.”

Jaskier shook his head.

“I should write a… a _very mean_ song about you.”

“Maybe I’ll write one first,” she called over her shoulder, and Jaskier did turn around then to watch her leave. 

When he turned back again the besotted idiot smile had returned to his face.

“I might be in love.”

Geralt hummed.

*

Jaskier left the stage to roaring applause, still high on adrenaline, bowing and grinning as he waded through the tables, but also filled with a rush of relief at having it behind him, and finally having no more reason to hold back on the wine. He intended to make good use of that. The last contestant was announced in the background, and Geralt didn’t comment as he returned to the table with another full cup already in hand.

By the time he warned him his mother was approaching, he was already three quarters deep. Maybe for the better.

“Are you finding everything to your liking?”

An empty platitude, he knew, out of politeness rather than genuine interest, or any plans to change it if he said he wasn’t, and so he remained silent. His mother charged on. Desperate to make conversation, as always. Even after he’d told her a million times he’d rather not.

“I saw Valdo Marx at your table earlier, I hope he wasn’t bothering you?”

Jaskier huffed, already seeing the rest of the conversation play out.

“No more than usual.”

“Good. He is such an annoying character, I don’t know how Cidaris can bear it.”

It wasn’t as if Jaskier disagreed, and she knew that. But.

“I never understood why the two of you became so… close,” she continued, and _oh, would you look at that,_ there it was.

“You were always so different. Never liked seeing the two of you together. You should have listened to me and known that it would never work.”

Jaskier forced a smile at her, then downed the rest of his wine. He hated this. She thought herself in the right, and he couldn’t even correct her. Because Valdo and him were never going to work back then, yes, and maybe he should have realised that sooner than he did, he could admit that, but still, the years with him had also been the best of his youth. Because he had actually been there for him. Made him feel important. Not like the small boy he had been the rest of the time. Made him feel loved. For who he was. Not what he was. He’d treated him better than most, in his own estate. Not necessarily good. But better. And for young Julian, that had been enough.

And right now, he understood why again.

Valdo had always just  _known._ He had understood. Geralt was sitting across from him with a carefully blank face, probably trying to make sense of his body language. He had travelled with him for a while, and he had learned to read his mannerisms surprisingly well. But he would never  _understand._ He would gain some insight into his past here. Maybe ask the right questions, draw the right conclusions. Maybe not. But even if Jaskier explained, he wouldn’t get it. Not like someone who had been here with him all those years ago. Who had witnessed firsthand what had happened in these walls. And who always fucking knew how to get under his skin, in one way or the other. Bound together by sheer mass of shared knowledge and experience.

“I’m glad you’re doing better for yourself now.”

Jaskier scoffed.

“How is the Countess de Stael?”

Of course. Of  _fucking_ course. 

He shot a warning look up to Geralt, should he decide to break his silence now of all times to tell his mother about how he had picked Jaskier up drunk in a tavern not so long ago, after the Countess had dumped him, again. 

“She was well the last time I saw her.”

There. Not even a lie. She had been great, actually. With some random lord between her thighs who wasn’t even offering to share, the prude. Jaskier surely could have made it worth his while until the novelty wore off and he’d be bored enough to leave them to it.

Beside him, his mother sighed. Probably realising this conversation was going nowhere fast. His leg started bouncing under the table.

“Your father is very cross, you know? You should come talk to him.”

“Right,” Jaskier said, drumming his fingers against the wooden table, intending to absolutely not do that, and waited for her to leave.

She did so with another sigh and a hand on his arm that was supposedly aiming for comfort, and he took a deep breath, hoping to calm himself down. Instead, a familiar bout of feelings overtook him, the same as back when, when their conversations that had no right to be called thus left him off worse than before. A tight coil of his muscles, a sharp pressure in his temples, a sting behind his eyes, a tear at his heart. His fingers kept fidgeting. Only one of two things had ever helped to stop this. And he’d already tried alcohol.

Fuck it.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m going to do something stupid,” Jaskier announced, ignoring the eyebrow he got from Geralt, and turned around to scan the room. He found the Cidarian table quick enough, quite a few rows across, and only glanced for a second at his family’s table at the front of the room before twisting back halfway.

“And I need you to only intervene if I land myself in immediate mortal danger.”

Geralt hummed, that _was_ what he was here for, and so Jaskier settled down facing Valdo, ready to stare at him until he noticed. It took some time longer than expected, a servant had already refilled his cup and offered Geralt another ale when Valdo finally looked up from where he was retelling a story to a captive audience. But their eyes met, and he smiled. Good. Time to turn it up a notch. Jaskier licked his lips, perfectly aware how he looked when his tongue lingered just a moment too long to be incidental, and when he was sure he had Valdo’s full attention, he nodded over to their table.

Valdo laughed, full bodied, throwing his head back, but Jaskier could see him emptying his cup and making excuses to his people just as he was turning back to Geralt.

Geralt, who was staring at him as if he’d completely lost his mind now. Which,  _fair._ But really not the time to be discussing the complexities of their relationship as Valdo swaggered up to their table.

“So, how many drinks did it take for you to forgive me?” he drawled, and right, Jaskier hadn’t exactly been subtle in his attempt to drown his sorrows in wine. He could swear it had been watered down, though.

“I haven’t forgiven you,” he shot back, “probably never will.”

Valdo leaned against the table.  
  
“I meant the insult to your choice of fashion, but right, yeah, there’s that. Forgot I was forever in your disgrace for loving you. Wanna dance?”

Jaskier grit his teeth. Of course he still couldn’t admit there was anything he’d ever done wrong. He glanced at Geralt and then slid his hand into Valdo’s offered one. This was off to a great start. 

He let himself be led to the dancefloor.

“What you did was-”

“What _I_ did?” Valdo interrupted. “As if you didn’t leave me, heartbroken in Oxenfurt. Haven’t you heard the song?”

Oh,  _not this again._ Yes, he’d heard the damn song. Half the continent had. It was one of Valdo’s better known ballads, tragically the only thing he’d ever written that wasn’t compositional excellence, and instead featured enough emotion to capture an audience for once. Heartbreak, loss, and, naturally, not an ounce of regret. Needless to say he’d stretched artistic licence to it’s limits, conveniently leaving out how it had been a mutual agreement right up until he had fucked up and continued to make a scene about it. 

He’d also never made it a secret who the song was about.  _Respect doesn’t make history,_ indeed.

“Yes, not one of your finer works, is it.”

“I thought you of all people would appreciate it.”

“Hah,” Jaskier said, deciding against going down the route that would spiral into an endless discussion of their musical opinions. Not only had they heard it all a thousand times before, he also didn’t have the patience for it right now. Instead, he said,

“It’s wrong, though. You know exactly why I left.”

Because he had told him, repeatedly, yelling at him until it must have made its way through that thick skull of his, but every now and then, he had his doubts.

“You still left,” Valdo insisted, and just for a second, it sounded like actual hurt. Well, the man had always been a good performer.

“That’s so sad,” Jaskier said, patting Valdo’s cheeks with both hands before turning to the lead musician for a request, and manoeuvring them in between the other couples when she nodded. By the time they had brought themselves in position, the sneer was back on Valdo’s face.

“Straight into the arms of a witcher,” he mused. “Tell me, are the rumours true? About their… enhanced properties?”

He leaned in close with the first step forward, determining their positions in the dance with a leg slightly too far between Jaskier’s to be proper, and the latter only glared.

“Oh, come on, we all know that’s the only quality you look for in a man these days.”

“Yes, because my previous method of going for the most proud and pretentious, who care more about their own prestige than love – or, in any case, me – wasn’t working out so well.”

“So he is fucking you.”

Jaskier huffed, focussing on his steps instead of deigning that with an answer. The dance should be second nature to him, but his coordination seemed to have slacked, and he hadn’t actually danced this part in a while.

“What is this, jealousy?” he laughed eventually, twirling as he found his feet and the music picked up momentum.

“I’m just wondering how you managed to stoop so low.”

Valdo caught him and pulled him back in with one hand.

“Suck a dick,” Jaskier said, slightly dizzy.

“You were always one of the best students – well, right after me.”

“Suck a dick,” Jaskier singsonged, in tune with the music, over and over.

“And now you’re running after the witcher, sleeping in the dirt, and doing who-knows-what-else there, playing popular songs for coin in rundown backwater taverns, for drunkards who don’t even appreciate your talent.”

“Suck a motherfucking dick,” Jaskier finished.

“It’s pitiful.”

“While you talent is much more appreciated in court, I’m sure,” Jaskier spat, concentrating on the shift in direction before continuing. 

“Tell me, when was the last time the Duke has… _appreciated_ your _talent?_ ”

He made sure the innuendo was clear, so Valdo couldn’t talk himself out of this one. There had been too many rumours about Cidaris’ court and its nobles laying a drunken hand on a pretty face for him to assume Valdo wasn’t one of them. So he had no right to lecture him about his lifestyle.

“Or was that the Marquis? I keep forgetting.”

So many respectable people in the land, being responsible with their power. He tutted.

“Spreading your legs for coin, which makes,” he cocked his head, “which one of us a whore?”

It wasn’t fair, he knew, but they had moved past fair several years ago, without stopping at its inn, or even acknowledging its place on the map. He could see the impact it had on Valdo’s face, feeling nastily proud of it, and the lifting of some weight from his own lungs. Hatred shared was hatred halved, as the saying went.

“Mh, hit a nerve, did I?”

The touch at his hip definitely felt harsher than the dance strictly called for. 

It brought a memory to mind that made him chuckle.

“Huh, remember that time we went to the whorehouse in Oxenfurt?” he said, just slightly too loud to be casual, and just loud enough for dancers nearby to hear. They could pretend all they wanted not to be listening.

“And that girl, what was her name? Ba-… Bre-…”

“Bhezi,” Valdo supplied, voice tight. “And if you don’t shut up now I swear by Melitele’s tits I-”

“Bhezi. Right.”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully.

“I’ll never forget the look on your face.” 

He probably wouldn’t forget the look on his face right now, either. It could only be described as murderous. Maybe with a generous helping of embarrassment.

“You pulled us out of there so fast...“ he trailed off with a fond shake of his head and grinned

“Oh, how the tables have turned.”

Valdo scoffed, recovering way too quickly for Jaskier’s tastes, and going straight for the offensive.

“At least I know how to keep in good graces. Rumour has it the Countess de Stael dropped you like a hot potato.”

_How_ did he even know that?

“Again.”

They moved further apart, and Jaskier vaguely remembered the arm movement demanded of him, while Valdo continued, voice still full of rage, but trying for casual.

“Does your mother know? I’m sure she’s very sad about that particular development.”

“She didn’t drop me.”

“Call it whatever you want, fact is she decided your cock wasn’t worth putting up with the rest of you – and by the _gods_ can I relate to that. Some advice. If your technique is shit, you need to find someone with lower expectations. Or someone who can’t afford to have her high standards and needs to make do with whatever scoundrel they come across.”

Jaskier flubbed turn, already angry about what he knew to be the next thing from Valdo’s mouth, and when they circled back together, his fist was already on the way to his face before he finished saying,

“Oh, like the witcher.”

And maybe, just for a tiny little moment, he had forgotten that Valdo was a well accomplished swordsman, trained in hand-to-hand combat as part of his father’s education, and probably took the Cidarian knights up on a challenge to keep his skills honed – and his bed warmed. But, well, the one thing he was very much not trained in was a good old brawl, and so that was exactly what Jaskier went for when chaos inevitably erupted. He planted his feet and fought dirty, trying as best as he could to keep from ending up on the floor, but nonetheless it wasn’t long until his back made painful acquaintance with a nearby table. 

He got back up, and hastily apologised to its occupants.

“What the fuck, Pankratz?!” Valdo yelled as he stumbled a few steps back, staring at his hand when it came away from his nose bloody.

Jaskier knew that look. Had seen it on all the faces he’d defended Geralt’s honour to. The disbelief, the disgust, the  _why would you start a fight over a witcher,_ the  _why would you take his side at all,_ the _you must be as much of a freak as him, then, if you think that’s worth it._ But with Valdo, there was something else to it. A hurt in his eyes as he glanced over at Geralt, ready to pounce should things escalate, then back to Jaskier, and shook his head, wet hot anger written across his features like Jaskier hadn’t seen since their university years.

“You don’t get to pretend I never meant anything to you!”

Ah, so that was what it wa s. Why would you pick him  _over me._

“You can’t stay mad forever!”

Jaskier scoffed, not even needing to think about his answer.

“Watch me!”

And next thing he knew he was being tackled to the ground.

He struggled, naturally, landing a good kick to Valdo’s shin, but eventually he had him pinned down, one hand on his arm, the other on his chest, Jaskier’s free hand grabbing at his elbow.

“While we’re on the topic of pretending, though,” Jaskier hissed, not willing to admit defeat while his tongue could still do the work, “why don’t you stop pretending you’re as innocent as they come and just once in your life have the balls to own up to something you did?!”

Valdo snarled, and Jaskier could see the stupid rebuttal forming on his lips, and so he took his chance, sank a hand into Valdo’s curls and  _yanked,_ kicking a leg out when it had the desired effect and used the momentum to turn them over so he was now on top.

Valdo huffed a breath, slightly strangled, but his voice was sharp when he found it again.

“I wish I never fucking met you.”

“Oh, the feeling’s mutual,” Jaskier teased.

It caused a noise coming loose at the back of Valdo’s throat, a few forced breaths, and then they were moving again, and suddenly he was being hauled up by the collar of his doublet and shoved backwards, stumbling, and his spacial memory of the place told him there was a pillar coming up behind him, and it was probably a great metaphor for their relationship that he instinctively pulled sideways, knowing Valdo to be entirely indifferent if his skull met the stone with a little too much force, and he was proven right a moment later when once his ass had made contact Valdo pushed onward and in closer and then they were – 

– kissing?

He returned it without thinking, giving as good as he got, because that’s what you do when you’re pressed against a hot body with a tongue down your throat, but they were both still panting and flushing with adrenaline and it wasn’t exactly what he’d call  _nice,_ until Valdo took another deliberate step forward and he could feel his body heat radiating, and smell the sweet scent of his favourite soap, and he remembered that,  _right, yeah,_ there had been a reason for this.

How many times had they stolen away like this, here, and in Oxenfurt, when everything had become too much, and the only remedy had been a lover’s warm embrace? When they had just needed a shoulder, or a lap, to rest their head on for a bit. Or admittedly, more often than not a willing participant in some carnal pleasures to take the edge off. Only to be found, later, by a maid in the supply closet, or by a professor in one of their rooms, or, on one memorable occasion, by a stable hand after a rather literal roll in the hay. Even the stern talking to had always been worth the nights spent wrapped in each others warmth and safety.

Jaskier melted into the kiss like he was used to doing, the feeling of coming home more prominent than it had been all evening, and by the time Valdo pulled back he knew his face had fallen, lips parted, openly yearning, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. 

Valdo noticed, his eyes going soft.

“Oh.”

It was the only warning he got before the hands left his collar and took his cheeks, gentler than any other touch between them today, and when Valdo leaned in and kissed him again it was sweet, and caring, and _fuck,_ the man still knew exactly how to turn his knees into goo. One hand left for his hip, fingers teasing under the hem of his doublet and kneading the flesh there, and this time it was Jaskier who pulled them apart, a strange mix of turned on and close to tears. Valdo didn’t seem to be faring any better, and leaned their foreheads together to catch his breath. Jaskier took the opportunity to study those eyes that he hadn’t seen this close in forever, especially not without any sharp fire in them – well, except for the lights reflecting in them now from all over the hall, and – oh  _fuck._

He risked a glance around them and immediately closed his eyes again.  _Shit._ Despite the band’s best attempts to keep everyone’s attention, they had attracted some stares. Many confused, some disgusted, most simply entertained by the show, though his family certainly wouldn’t count to those. He couldn’t actually judge Geralt’s expression from this position, but to be honest, the witcher had probably seen worse. Still, they shouldn’t be doing this. 

He was squirming in Valdo’s hold now, but while it alerted him to the situation, it didn’t cause him to back off. Instead he smirked.

“Is that the great bard Julian Alfred Pankratz… _uncomfortable_ with an audience?”

“Fuck you.”

Valdo pulled him in even closer by the hip.

“Glad we’re on the same page here.”

He grinned at him, then dropped his other hand as well and leaned in to murmur in his ear.

  
“Our usual spot. Ten minutes. I take the left, you take the right?”

And then, before Jaskier really had time to answer, he pushed past him, and left him standing there, fuming and fumbling under the gazes of dozens. He was going to pay for that. Jaskier pulled his doublet down and straightened up, giving a tense smile to the nearby table, and stalked off in the opposite direction.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introducing: lesbians!

The next Geralt saw of Jaskier he was sliding in to stand next to him, slightly sweaty, heart beating weirdly irregularly, the smell of his recent activities overpowering even the ale under Geralt’s nose. His lip curled.

Jaskier just put a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asked, his voice low and deliberately conversational. 

“Are you not enjoying yourself?” Geralt shot back, with a pointed stare at his rumpled state.

He huffed. Let his hand slide off. And then Geralt noticed it. An underlying smell of… something else. Something acidic. Fear? Well, he had come in trailing after his father, so maybe something had happened.

“We’re under strict orders to, and I quote, get lost, as soon as won’t appear suspicious, and never let ourselves be seen again in these parts of the land.”

Something had definitely happened. He raised an eyebrow.

“You were banished?”

Jaskier sighed, a contradiction to his still chipper tone.

“Disowned, actually.”

He shook his head and stepped back around to his side of the table.

“Not that it makes much of a difference.”

Why was he being so blasé about this? This couldn’t have been part of his plan, could it? Geralt knew all too much about difficult relationships to home, hell, Kaer Morhen was an absolute clusterfuck of different memories, as much as he loved his brothers, he could never quite put that out of his mind, but he had been pretty sure the bard had only been looking for a little fuck for old time’s sake, not expecting this particular side effect, and the tremor in his hand as he picked up the abandoned ale on the table and downed the rest of it in a few deep gulps confirmed confirmed it. It also made it feel necessary to ask if he was okay. But Jaskier waved him off.

“I’m _great_.”

Geralt doubted it.

“Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. All my earthly desires are met for tonight,” – he gestured towards the empty ale, even if they both knew it wasn’t what he meant – “I’m no longer under any obligation to the succession, my lovely sister, if she plays her cards right, will get to claim my title, and my performance tonight was brilliant, so there’s no doubt-” 

He cut himself off when Geralt couldn’t help but snort.

“What.”

“You’ve been disqualified.”

“What?”

It had been announced a few minutes earlier, and while Geralt couldn’t care less about the music, he had perked up at the mention of Jaskier’s name.

“For _uncourtly behaviour_. You and him both. You missed it.”

Jaskier’s mouth fell open like that of a fish gasping for air.

“Oh, that is- I- how _dare-_?” he sputtered, before turning abruptly to scan the room. Then he hopped back around.

“Alright. Tell me. Who.”

Now Geralt was finally loosing the battle against the smirk on his face as he nodded over to the table with Jaskier’s earlier bardic acquaintance. Following his line of sight, Jaskier spotted her, too, being thoroughly celebrated by her friends, and – if possible – looked even more offended. But he pressed his lips together to keep from further commentary, shook his head, and turned to find the servant nearby, bringing fruit and bread to a table. He waved her over.

“What’s the most potent drink you’re serving tonight?” he asked as soon as he saw her approaching.

She looked apologetic.

“That’ll be the wine, mylord.” 

Jaskier grimaced. If at the lack of liquor or the address, Geralt couldn’t tell.

“Then can you get us another...” he raised a hand to wave vaguely around their empty drinks, as if still deciding on a dimension, “...pitcher of that?”

She nodded and left, no questions asked. Geralt instead had several of them, so he raised his eyebrows.

  
“I’m  _fine,_ ” Jaskier reiterated. “I’m just.  _Very_ angry.”

He let out a breath.

“I’m sure tomorrow I’ll regret half of tonight events, and I look forward to finding out which ones, and you’re very welcome to provide the strong, sexy shoulder I’ll cry on, but until then-”

The servant put the wine down, promising to be back later with a cup for Geralt, and he didn’t bother correcting her on the assumption that Jaskier was going to share.

“I’ve fucked my rival, I have unlimited booze, and finally pissed off my parents as much as they piss me off, so. Cheers.”

He filled his cup, raised it in a toast and almost emptied it again, and Geralt was sure that drinking that entire thing by himself was going to be very high on tomorrow’s list of regrets, but he kept that to himself. This wasn’t the Jaskier he knew. This one was bitter and miserable and he decided he actually liked the overexcited puppy better. Bitter and miserable was his job.

“You’re drunk,” he said, and Jaskier looked up with a snort.

“I may not be entirely sober, I’ll give you that, but I’m far from drunk.”

He took another big gulp.

“But fear not, I fully intend to change that.”

*

“To the quarrels of men!”

Laughter went around the table as they raised their cups, and Maelille joined in distractedly, her attention on the table in the back. Someone had caught her eye, and she kept returning to the unlikely couple she had met there earlier. So she excused herself quietly, and made her way over, a new plan in motion.

When she plopped down next to Jaskier again, he immediately looked up and frowned. Off to a great start.

“Seems your attempts at foul play were entirely unnecessary,” he greeted, and she smirked.

“Oh, but it _was_ fun.”

She hadn’t expected it to have any effect on the outcome, if she was being honest, and it wouldn’t have, if the hadn’t gone and gotten himself thrown out, but when faced with inevitable defeat, you had to fight with everything you had.

“There you go, Sir,” the woman that had been serving the table interrupted them, and put a cup down in front of the witcher, which, by the looks of it, wouldn’t get much use, but that was none of her business. She sat up straighter. The servant looked over at Jaskier with uncertainty in her features, no doubt related to the rumours currently doing the rounds, and eventually settled on her with a smile. _Oh, what a smile._

“Mylady.”

Maelille laughed.

“Oh, fuck, no. No lady,” she corrected, maybe a bit too loudly, and took a quick bow. “Nothing but a humble bard.”

The woman nodded, awkwardly.  _Shit._ This close up she could see the colour of her eyes, and the small freckles around her nose, and she was having a hard time not staring.

“Well, I-... Congratulations.”

_Get it together! Breathe! Godsdammit._

“...Thank you,” she managed. She was trying her best, okay? But the giant ass grin on her face was as much a hindrance when trying to communicate as the company of a pretty lady already was.

“Is there anything I can get you?” said pretty lady offered, and – oh no. _Think! Fast!_ There must be something sensible to say, give her a reason to come back. Anything. _Urgh._ All the words of a poet and yet none when it mattered.

“I, uh, saw fruit going around, is there any left?”

_Smooth._

“I’ll search for it,” the woman said, after only the slightest of pauses, and took her leave with a small nod and a smile. Gods, she was killing her with the cuteness of her face.

She turned around to Jaskier.

“What’s her name?”

She was sure she had seen them talk earlier, so she figured he probably still knew her. But he only groaned in response, as if only now realising she had never actually been interested.  Fool.

“You’re here for the girl.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Can you blame me?”

He rolled his eyes, swaying off balance in the process, and, really, if that was his usual coordination after a few cups of wine, she already had her strategy for the next competition laid out. 

At least he wasn’t moody enough to stand in the way of young love.

“It’s Vema,” he sighed. “And she’s probably been dying to get her hands on some of that fruit.”

She beamed. Oh, this was  _perfect._

“Thank you.”

She grabbed his face –  _couldn’t help herself_ – and pressed a kiss to his cheek, before standing to intercept Vema and leaving him to wallow in self-pity and wine on his own for a while.


	5. Chapter 5

It took longer than expected for Geralt to decide he’d had enough. In fact, it took a few whole hours, until the sun had long set, and the musicians had all been replaced, and the ambient noise had turned to one of drunken laughter and singing. Hours full of desperately trying to get a memory out of his head – his father, standing in the doorway, voice booming, while he scrambled onto legs still wobbly from a previous engagement, stark naked except for the bedsheet Valdo had thrown at him in an impressive amount of quick thinking – with little to no success. Hours of judging grunts and raised eyebrows every time he refilled his cup, while Geralt nursed his ale and failed to be subtle about the glares thrown past him at some point over his shoulder. Maybe his parents. The direction fit. Jaskier snorted. What, like he was angry on his behalf? Cute. But he couldn’t help his imagination running wild at the notion. The White Wolf defending his honour. What an idea. Because his parents had thrown him out and now there was another place on the map he wasn’t allowed in? Because he was being helplessly abandoned to the wilderness of urban Redania? Left to fend for himself in the hands of a witcher? A witcher who was currently bemoaning the lack of his sword but neither unable nor unwilling to show his father a bad time even without it?  _Gods,_ he would pay to see that. 

He was chuckling to himself at the visual, until suddenly Geralt was beside him, and he realised he might actually-

“G’r’lt?”

It came out more garbled than anticipated, but it got his question across, and oh, yes, that was the furious growl.

“Don’t,” Jaskier warned. Whatever it was he was planning on doing, it could only bring more harm than good. Unfortunately. But Geralt didn’t hear him. He tried again with a hand on his arm.

“Don’t.”

This one turned more tired than accusatory.  _It’s not worth it,_ packed into as many syllables he trusted himself with right now. And it seemed to snap Geralt out of it. Because the next thing he knew he was being bodily hauled up, without any heads dropping to the ground in the meantime, and he almost protested at the remaining wine left in his pitcher that he could see clearly now from his elevated position, when the walls started tilting and he flailed into Geralt’s arms.  _What the fuck?_

“You’re drunk.”

Well, there was that.

“You know, this time you might be right about it,” he admitted, hoping his mouth would keep up with the enunciation he had in mind, but doubting it.

And so they made their way to collect their things and go find Roach. Or, more to the point, Geralt made his way, and dragged Jaskier along by his arm like a flag hanging from a pole. But they made it.

They stepped out, and Jaskier took a deep breath, hoping the crisp night breeze would clear his senses like a nice flush of icy water against his face. Only it wasn’t actually that cold anymore. It was, in fact, also barely night, the sun not yet up but already throwing her shadow ahead. Jaskier grimaced at the dull grey it painted everything it. It was probably for the best, though, he mused, for this way they could get further away without having to rely on Geralt’s spooky night vision, and, given his current losing battle against gravity, maybe that was exactly why Geralt had waited until now to get him out. Clever witcher. 

It was also how, as they approached the stables, he was able to make out a figure scrambling up from the ground.

Valdo.

_Fuck,_ he had been making good progress forgetting about this whole night.

Geralt walked straight past him to Roach, leaving the two awkwardly leaning against the wooden stalls.

“Your sister told me this was your horse,” Valdo explained to break the tension, waving vaguely in her direction. “Pretty.”

“She’s my horse,” Geralt grunted from behind him.

“It’s his horse,” Jaskier confirmed, and the silence stretched anew. He really didn’t want to be dealing with this right now.

“Will you be alright?” Valdo tried.

He hummed and nodded, huffing a laugh when he realized how much like Geralt he sounded, but for once in his life he understood. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He didn’t want to have any conversation, and he wasn’t sure he was able to have any conversation, but especially not this one. He had already fucked up enough for one day, and even in this creepy lighting he found what they said about alcohol and pretty faces to be true, and he didn’t need to hang around until the sun filled in the world’s bright colours again and he was swept away by hazel eyes for a second time that day.

So when Geralt led Roach out of the stable and collected him at the entrance he gladly took the outstretched hand likely meant to go on his back and let himself be pulled into the not-quite-night. Geralt didn’t mention it.

“How far do we need to get away for a place where you can sleep it off?” he asked.

“Not much,” Jaskier mumbled, leaning against him so their entire arms were pressed together. “Just. Out of sight. It’s not like they’ll be sending armed men after me.”

“...Jaskier.”

He froze.

Roach took another step and so did Geralt, but then they stopped, all waiting for him to address the calling of his name so unfamiliar on those lips. It was the first time Valdo had ever called him that, as far as he remembered, and he didn’t want to think about what that might imply. Didn’t want to turn around and find out. But he also couldn’t keep walking. So he sighed and pivoted dramatically.

Valdo had made it halfway from the stables to them, only a few steps for a sober man, but none of them were, at this point. Even if judging by the way he stayed upright all on his own, Valdo wasn’t as far gone as him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and actually looked it for once, and _shit_ if Jaskier didn’t have to admit it was also a very good look on him. But he didn’t blame him for this – and _huh, that was a first –_ but it was ridiculous that he’d apologize for that, and he was still figuring out how he was going to convey that when Valdo sighed. Closed his eyes.

“I’m _sorry_.”

And oh, oh _ohoho_ , that fucking  _bastard_ . That one was obviously meant for more than just tonight. Gods above.  _Why_ did he have to go and make this even more complicated. He would have been fine going back to hating him with every fibre of his being in the morning, and pretending all this never happened. You know. Like they usually did. But  _no_ , he had to go and actually fucking apologize, and make him reconsider his entire stance.  _Bullocks._ He hated him. It was just so easy to hate him. He was  _easy to hate._

But he was also softly, endearingly blabbering on about how he never meant for any of this to happen, and all the ways he had realized his mistakes and shit decisions, and couldn’t they just go back to the way they were before, maybe keep up the rivalry though, ‘cause it was kinda good for business, and he just wanted Jaskier. To stop hating him. He’d even write a whole song about it if it would help. And he sounded almost as tired as Jaskier felt, and he couldn’t _not_ kiss him, right? He was already up in his space before either of them noticed and it was practically second nature to shut him up with his mouth on his.

It was a short kiss, but when Jaskier pulled back, Valdo’s eyes were full of hope, relief, perhaps, before he dropped his chin on his shoulder and wrapped his arms around his middle and he knew, he _knew_ he was going to have to forgive him, probably already had, a long time ago, but he couldn’t exactly say that now, could he, and he did have the presence of mind to know that he was absolutely shitfaced.

“Let’s hope I remember that in the morning,” he mumbled, then untangled himself with a sad smile and made his way back to Geralt’s waiting hand.

This mess could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the challenge for this one (before it got away from me and became sth different) was to have jaskier reference as many memes as possible without it becoming too ridiculous, and it was the last part of that unfortunately that caused many to be edited out afterwards. bonus points though if you can spot the places where they wouldve been. sometimes the leadup is still there

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr](http://frubeto.tumblr.com).


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